I'm the TR-808
Well, now that Krucoff's out of the country performing mitzvahs and all the test results have come back negative, I think it's safe to recount our exploits from last Wednesday. I actually did mean to write it up earlier, but I was in Florida for five days, and being in Florida makes me want to do nothing but eat pickled pig's feet and listen to David Allen Coe. I've recovered now.
Krucoff and I have been in talks for drinks for approximately seventeen years. Our conversations go something like this:
OR
Last Wednesday night found me drunk enough to agree to leaving the house after 10. I begged Krucoff not to make me go to the LES. "Come to Queens," I implored. "I promise you a lap dance if you come to Queens." Forty-five minutes later, we were sitting in the Court Square Diner (11 restaurant inspection violation points). Krucoff ate dinner while I stuffed my face with the fries from his plate. "I've never been to this neighborhood," he remarked. "It's nice."
"You bet it is," I slurred. "Let's get the check--we're going to the Riverhead* for that lap dance I promised."
I have been to the Riverhead on many occasions. Although there is no shortage of gentlemen's clubs in LIC, this one is the best** because it is only three blocks from my apartment. Also, the dancers are remarkably fresh and young, presumably because they've only recently been kidnapped from their Russian Federation port cities. (Speaking of, is there a city in Russia proper that sounds like "Kazahkstan"? One girl told us that was where she was from, but she wasn't small and Asian-y looking, so I'm suspect.) The beers are only $5, which is cheap in comparison to every bar on the LES.
More important than being pneumatic, limber, or in possession of shoes with lucite heels is a stripper's ability to spot an easy mark. I was drunker than Cooter Brown; Krucoff loves the Aryan ladies--between us we easily spent $20 in the first ten minutes we were there. I generally ask every dancer where she's from--usually Poland or Estonia or Ukraine--and stick a dollar in her g-string and say spaceeba! or dziękuję!, which seems to make them giggle. "If they all speak different languages, what do they speak to each other?" Krucoff asked me at one point. "Esperanto," I replied.
So he went off to learn the International Language and was replaced by two jackass I-bankers, the likes of which I've never seen at the Riverhead. They were fascinated to find a clothed woman at the bar, so they chatted me up in that charmless, aging frat boy/rapist way that really turns me on. "This place is a dump," Asshole # 1 said, taking a sip of his Amstel Light.
"Lemme guess, you live in CityLights, don't you."
"Nope." He shooed one of the dancers away.
"Then what the fuck are you doing here," I sneered.
"We were playing golf on Long Island. We're on our way back to Manhattan."
"Aha! Wait, lemme guess again. You live in...Murray Hill. No, wait, the Upper East Side. No! Wait, I know...the Financial District." I poked at the embroidered Lehmann Brothers logo on his polo shirt. He was beginning to get annoyed. "So, you're a banker! At Lehmann Brothers!"
"Well, not anymore. I used to be-"
"Hey, Andrew!" Krucoff had finally reappeared. "This guy works at Lehmann Brothers!" I poked his chest again. "He plays golf and thinks the girls here are ugly."
I think Krucoff realized at this point that we had to leave before the former lacrosse players cleaned his clock. I was almost out of money and tired of drinking Budweiser. It seemed as good a time as any to end the evening.
On my way out I turned back to the I-bankers. I waved goodbye. "Fuck off back to Manhattan!" I shouted, smiling. I'm not sure if they understood me or not. I walked our Young Manhattanite halfway to the subway. And now he's off in a land where the lap dances are a lot cheaper.
The Dypsomaniaxe - All Women Are Bad
D-Nice*** - They Call Me D-Nice
*Which also has 11 restaurant inspection violation points.
**It is not the best in the world, however. That title goes to Baltimore's late, lamented Atlantis, which I'm sure Krucoff knows nothing about.
***Who the hell knew that the Human TR-808 was a photoblogger? Someone alert that Loren guy.
Krucoff and I have been in talks for drinks for approximately seventeen years. Our conversations go something like this:
Me: Drinks tonight?
Him: Sure, how about 12:30?
Me: I am lame and I don't leave the house after 10.
Him: I could probably make it by 11:45.
Me: No.
OR
Him: Drinks tonight?
Me: Sure, where?
Him: [Generic Lame Bar on the Lower East Side]
Me: How many people will be in tow and how many of them do I loathe?
Him: [Number !< 6]
Last Wednesday night found me drunk enough to agree to leaving the house after 10. I begged Krucoff not to make me go to the LES. "Come to Queens," I implored. "I promise you a lap dance if you come to Queens." Forty-five minutes later, we were sitting in the Court Square Diner (11 restaurant inspection violation points). Krucoff ate dinner while I stuffed my face with the fries from his plate. "I've never been to this neighborhood," he remarked. "It's nice."
"You bet it is," I slurred. "Let's get the check--we're going to the Riverhead* for that lap dance I promised."
I have been to the Riverhead on many occasions. Although there is no shortage of gentlemen's clubs in LIC, this one is the best** because it is only three blocks from my apartment. Also, the dancers are remarkably fresh and young, presumably because they've only recently been kidnapped from their Russian Federation port cities. (Speaking of, is there a city in Russia proper that sounds like "Kazahkstan"? One girl told us that was where she was from, but she wasn't small and Asian-y looking, so I'm suspect.) The beers are only $5, which is cheap in comparison to every bar on the LES.
More important than being pneumatic, limber, or in possession of shoes with lucite heels is a stripper's ability to spot an easy mark. I was drunker than Cooter Brown; Krucoff loves the Aryan ladies--between us we easily spent $20 in the first ten minutes we were there. I generally ask every dancer where she's from--usually Poland or Estonia or Ukraine--and stick a dollar in her g-string and say spaceeba! or dziękuję!, which seems to make them giggle. "If they all speak different languages, what do they speak to each other?" Krucoff asked me at one point. "Esperanto," I replied.
So he went off to learn the International Language and was replaced by two jackass I-bankers, the likes of which I've never seen at the Riverhead. They were fascinated to find a clothed woman at the bar, so they chatted me up in that charmless, aging frat boy/rapist way that really turns me on. "This place is a dump," Asshole # 1 said, taking a sip of his Amstel Light.
"Lemme guess, you live in CityLights, don't you."
"Nope." He shooed one of the dancers away.
"Then what the fuck are you doing here," I sneered.
"We were playing golf on Long Island. We're on our way back to Manhattan."
"Aha! Wait, lemme guess again. You live in...Murray Hill. No, wait, the Upper East Side. No! Wait, I know...the Financial District." I poked at the embroidered Lehmann Brothers logo on his polo shirt. He was beginning to get annoyed. "So, you're a banker! At Lehmann Brothers!"
"Well, not anymore. I used to be-"
"Hey, Andrew!" Krucoff had finally reappeared. "This guy works at Lehmann Brothers!" I poked his chest again. "He plays golf and thinks the girls here are ugly."
I think Krucoff realized at this point that we had to leave before the former lacrosse players cleaned his clock. I was almost out of money and tired of drinking Budweiser. It seemed as good a time as any to end the evening.
On my way out I turned back to the I-bankers. I waved goodbye. "Fuck off back to Manhattan!" I shouted, smiling. I'm not sure if they understood me or not. I walked our Young Manhattanite halfway to the subway. And now he's off in a land where the lap dances are a lot cheaper.
The Dypsomaniaxe - All Women Are Bad
D-Nice*** - They Call Me D-Nice
*Which also has 11 restaurant inspection violation points.
**It is not the best in the world, however. That title goes to Baltimore's late, lamented Atlantis, which I'm sure Krucoff knows nothing about.
***Who the hell knew that the Human TR-808 was a photoblogger? Someone alert that Loren guy.
